The Wistful Crossroads
The scream did not come from the throat, but from the stone itself, a jagged shriek of granite tearing open in the cellar of the Ashworth manor as the first volley of cannon fire shook the dust from the rafters above, sending a cloud of grey soot swirling into the candlelight like the ghosts of ancestors rising to judge the living, and Margaret stood in the center of the chaos with her hands...
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